


Super Unvincible

by Decepticonsensual



Series: The Festival of Mortilus [4]
Category: The Transformers (IDW Generation One), Transformers - All Media Types
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-09
Updated: 2015-01-09
Packaged: 2018-03-06 20:14:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,324
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3147146
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Decepticonsensual/pseuds/Decepticonsensual
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Anonymous requested:  "WhirlxRung demonslayer AU?"  Meet the demon-slayer who's super unvincible - until he runs across one very unusual demon.  Rated PG-ish for relatively mild violence.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Super Unvincible

“Ah, do come in.  How nice to have company for a change.”

The Slayer tilted his head.  The voice was mild, ordinary; the softly-spoken comment was almost appealingly wistful.  And neither of them were what he expected from the lips of a demon.

Stepping backwards off the threshold, he squinted his single optic at the doorframe again, wondering if there could be a booby trap there he’d missed.  “Well, isn’t that  _sweet_?  What’s the matter – feeling lonely?  All the other demons flaking out on your little playdates?”  As he spoke, the faint blue lines of his magical targeting system settled into place, overlaying his real sight.  The Slayer scanned the door, the frame, and all he could see of the room beyond.  No; his system was still showing only one bright flare of demonic magic, and that was embodied in the fiend sitting so primly in front of the fireplace.  No wards, no traps, no slavering familiars waiting to tear the demon hunter limb from limb.  “Lucky for you, I know all  _kinds_ of games we can play… but I’m not sure you’re gonna like them.”

Warily, he extended one long, birdlike foot over the threshold.  As he entered the room, the power contained within it began to hum along his fuel lines.  He could smell the demon’s magic – a strong tang of burnt copper and ozone.  The too-sweet scent of his own protective charms, activating when he crossed the threshold, clashed with that smell, as the charms themselves sent stinging bursts of cold along every line of the magic sigils painstakingly scratched into each inch of the Slayer’s paintwork.  (Once, he had had clever hands to fashion ingenious talismans against demonic influence, but now he was reduced to clawing runes into his own body with the crude pincers that remained to him.)

This particular demon wasn’t much to look at, as he perched in an oversized armchair in front of the fire.  Tiny, with an orange paintjob that might have reminded one of hellfire if the shade hadn’t been so… _cheerful,_ he had long, delicate hands and sweet blue optics behind a thick set of spectacles.  The Slayer wondered if they served some kind of mystical purpose, since a demon wouldn’t normally need help to see.

“Would you like some tea?” the demon asked.  He was smiling.

“Ooooh, yeah, that would be  _lovely._ Why don’t we sit down and have a  _lovely_ cup of tea and a  _lovely_ energon goodie, and then we can talk out our differences, and then – oh, yeah, and then I can end up your mind-controlled slave, because  _demon food is magical!_ ” the Slayer finished with a snarl.  He craned down so that his optic was level with the demon’s innocent baby blues, and brought one claw in close – so close that the arcane energy field surrounding the demon  _scraped_ against his protective wards, vibrating through his struts in a way that felt like sharpening a blade sounded.  “I’ve been at this game since before you crawled out of the Pit, Eyebrows.  You wanna try and patronise me again?  Go ahead.  I fragging dare you.”  The claw clacked twice next to the demon’s audial.  The Slayer then slowly rolled his wrist, letting the silver inlay of the blades catch the light, knowing that the presence of silver this near to the demon’s plating must be making the fiend itch. 

Without so much as blinking at the Slayer’s threatening posture or shuddering at the presence of silver, though, the demon sighed.  “That  _is_ a shame.  I rather hoped we could have a chat.”

“What about?”

“You.”

The Slayer pulled back slowly, his optic narrowing.

“I’ve met anointed Slayers before,” the demon continued, setting his teacup aside, “but never one quite like you.”

The Slayer abruptly lashed out, snagging the demon’s throat in his claw and lifting him out of his chair.  The demon gagged and kicked at the air.  Thin, raw lines of molten metal started to appear beneath the Slayer’s grip as the silver on his claws burned the cursed plating.  “Oh, you  _like_  the faceless look?”the demon hunter spat.  “How about I slice yours off, so you can try it yourself?”  Back arching and writhing in a futile attempt to get away from the pain, legs spasming frantically, the demon battered at the claw holding him, paying no attention to the way the silver singed his fingers.  The Slayer growled and tightened his grip…

… and suddenly reeled.

Searing heat shot  _back_ along the silver tracings, pouring from the demon’s wounded plating through to the Slayer’s own.  A burst of panic went through the Slayer’s processor as one protective charm after another burned out under the relentless heat.  This was  _wrong_ – no demon should be able to knock out so many of his wards, let alone so quickly!  Every circuit in his body was shrieking at him to let go, but the Slayer held on, even as his claws began to melt.  Instead, he threw back his head and _screamed._

There was an almighty crack, as if his scream had broken something in the air, and the Slayer was hurled backwards in a blast of light.  Snarling and panting, he heaved himself up to his knees. 

At least the heat was lessening, receding back across his plating like an ebbing tide.  It pooled, throbbing, around his neck and shoulders.  It still hurt, but he was no longer being melted alive.

Craning his head, the Slayer could make out a glowing band of gold circling his throat.  There seemed to be no substance to it; it was pure arcane energy.  A second band interlocked with it, and ran from his neck to where the opposite end looped around the demon’s slender fingers.

A leash.  A collar and a leash.

“I am sorry,” the demon said softly.  “I realise that you won’t believe this, but while I won’t let you hurt me, I will not hurt you, either.  I think that if we talked for a bit, you’d understand that…”

The Slayer wrapped the golden leash around his claw, ready to yank on it with all his weight and see if he could unbalance the fiend – or tug him within striking distance.

“… but the choice is yours, of course.”

Suddenly, the leash and collar vanished, and the Slayer stumbled in surprise, tipping forward and needing to catch himself on his wrists.  He glared up.

“For what it’s worth, I wasn’t referring to your empurata.”  The Slayer winced a little at hearing the despised word, spoken as casually as if it were part of a grocery list.  “I actually meant the sigils.  Very beautiful work.  Did you know that some of these are quite ancient?  I haven’t seen one or two since… oooh.”  The demon smiled.  “Before your species came to be, I would imagine.  Who carved them for you?”

“Did ’em myself,” the Slayer muttered, his gaze dropping.

“Extraordinary.”  The demon reseated himself, brushing primly at the scorch marks on his shoulders.  “What’s your name?”

“If you’d really met Slayers before, you’d know we don’t have names.”

“I know you don’t use them, once you’ve taken the oaths.”  There was that smile again, soft, almost hesitant, as if asking permission to fully blossom.  The Slayer felt the strangest desire to encourage it, and cursed himself silently.  “But you must still have one.  Or should I simply call you Slayer?”

 _Give me a second shot at that scrawny neck of yours, demon, and you can call me Oh Primus Please No Have Mercy Ouch That’s My Fuel Pump You’re Dissecting,_ the Slayer thought, but the rage that should have accompanied the thought was alarmingly lacking.  He should have been angry – he  _needed_ to be angry, at this fiend who had taken him down as if he were a novice.  And yet…

He stared openly at the demon, and then, after a long moment, said.  “Whirl.  My name used to be Whirl.”


End file.
